La Plus Vieille Alliance du Monde
by Ceibrielle
Summary: "Ah so this is love, Scotland thinks suddenly and although he is startled by where the thought comes from, it warms his chest with a thrum like a lion's purr." (Prompt: Something about one of them realizing their feelings for the other? Preferably in Scotland's pov but it doesn't matter!)


**For the scotfrasecretsanta event 2015 on Tumblr!**  
 **The original prompt was: "Something about one of them realizing their feelings for the other? Preferably in Scotland's pov but it doesn't matter!"**

 **Hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

Scotland falls face-first into a pile of snow. His ungraceful tumble is followed by a loud laugh and he digs himself out of the snowdrift to shoot a half-hearted glare at his blond haired companion.

"Do I not get a hand up?" he growls in mock irritation.

France responds by flinging some more snow over him.

 _Ah so this is love_ , Scotland thinks suddenly and although he is startled by where the thought comes from, it warms his chest with a thrum like a lion's purr.

...*... ...*... ...*... ...*... ...*...

France is beautiful. Not just the personification, but also the country with its old towns nestled quietly in the little nooks and crannies and beautiful, _spectacular_ Paris which always is always alive and humming with energy. New York is too brash and London is too dreary but Paris holds a place dear in his heart and he watches over it from the balcony jutting out from France's apartment.

His brain argues that nations cannot fall in love; that it is dangerous and reckless and that he, out of all nations, should know better. ( _Sometimes, he still dreams of the nations who loved so hard that they were no longer able to function by themselves and faded into the history books._ )

And his heart beats against the wall of reason he'd built and threatened to break it down with the thought of the way France's eyes light up in amusement or the way he sings both parts of the duet in the shower.

Scotland already knows what the outcome will be.

...*... ...*... ...*... ...*... ...*...

Usually, Scotland is the one to stay with France. (France complains too much about the weather in the British Isles and even though it is not something he can help, he still feels a little hurt by the off-hand comments.)

"Go out with me," Scotland blurts out one evening as both of them are curled up on the sofa watching some worn-out old sitcom that still manages to make France shake with laughter.

France doesn't even look away from the screen. "It's almost ten o'clock, Scotland. Where were you thinking of going?"

Scotland is overcome in a haze of embarrassment. "I… I meant…"

He looks up and sees France's confused expression and knows that he will not be able to do it. He knows that France will be nice enough to smile through it and after he was done, there'll still be an offer to be friends. But their friendship would essentially be broken into a million tiny shards and Scotland _knows_ that no amount of Sellotape would ever be able to repair it. ( _Scotland isn't sure he is willing to ruin nearly a thousand years of friendship because he can't control the feelings threatening to burst out of his chest._ )

France gives him an uncertain look and lays a warm hand down on Scotland's knee.

" _Écosse,_ you needn't force yourself to tell me now. Whenever you feel comfortable enough to tell me, I will always be here to listen."

Scotland curses himself for his selfishness in almost destroying their relationship and wonders whatever he had done to deserve someone like France.

...*... ...*... ...*... ...*... ...*...

Scotland remembers that time*, almost as clearly as yesterday.

( _For a nation, the time taken for an empire to crumble passes by in the blink of an eye.)_

"I'm thinking of giving up, _Écosse_. Maybe it's time for me to give in," France had said without a sliver of fear present in his voice. Scotland looked up and his horror saw only resignation in one blue eye not obscured by the dirty white bandages. "My forces have been pushed to their limit and England is gaining on me. There is nothing I can do."

Scotland purses his lips and turns away. Perhaps if he does not look, then he can persuade himself that the haggard face in front of him does not belong to his old friend. He pokes the remnants of the fire with his boot and kicks a few dry twigs into the warm ashes hoping that there would be enough heat for them to catch fire again. They do not and Scotland is painfully reminded that sometimes, things go too far for them to be brought back.

He promises to send his reinforcements and he does. He sends everything he can spare and perhaps a little more than he should have. But he cannot bring himself to think of the mask of despair covering France's face.

( _He gives all he can but in the end he is crushed and France is once again left alone._ )

...*... ...*... ...*... ...*... ...*...

For a nation who claims to be the "country of love", France is very dense when it comes to working out that Scotland has begun to look at him as more than a friend.

"What are these in aid of?" France gestures to the bouquet of cream daisies and brilliantly purple irises.

Scotland barely turns from his newspaper to regard his friend. "They're flowers. For you. I saw them in a florist's window and thought they'd go well with the new curtains in the living room." The lie flows easily off his tongue; he'd spent a good half an hour in the shop, carefully picking out the flowers, the wrapping and the ribbon. "Besides, you're letting me stay at your house; this is the least I can do."

France smiles and scoops up the flowers in his arms. Scotland looks resolutely away and wills his heart to stop fluttering.

"Thank you, old friend," France says, before he sighs and kisses Scotland lightly on the forehead. Scotland can feel the light press of his lips before it's gone. He waits until France leaves the room, oblivious to the emotions he had sparked and touches two fingers to the spot where France had kissed him.

...*... ...*... ...*... ...*... ...*...

In the end, it's not Scotland who makes the first move after all. They're huddled together on the sofa again and Scotland is hyper aware of the contact between them. The adverts flicker on and France shifts around until he's comfortable, regarding Scotland with an affectionate look.

"I love you," France says simply.

"I love you too," Scotland replies without hesitation despite the little jump in his chest, because he's long resigned himself to the fact that France will never like him in the same way that he does and that's ok because as long as they're still friends and able to talk to each other and see each other and touch each other, then Scotland is happy and he's sure that France is happy too.

"No, not like that," France sighs in exasperation. He leans across Scotland and reaches for the remote, muting the television. "I am in love with you."

And everything shuts down in his body because he's been waiting to confess and he's finally planned it all out and oh… His brain promptly short-circuits at the feel of France's mouth on his own. He's ashamed to say that he faints.

When he comes round, France passes him a glass and he's pleased to see that it's whisky because at the moment, he is way too sober to deal with this.

"I've always meant to ask you," France starts after a few moments of silence. Scotland raises the glass to his lips. "What do Scotsmen actually wear under their kilts?"

Scotland promptly chokes on his drink and France thumps him on the back with an amused expression on his face.

"Can you not ask questions like that when I'm trying to drink something?" He looks up to find France's face not centimetres from his own.

"So what _do_ Scotsmen wear under their kilts?" France asks in a whisper.

Scotland leans closer until their noses bump against each other.

"Not a damned thing."

And when they kiss, everything is sparks and embers where there had once been only ashes.

...*... ...*... ...*... ...*... ...*...

* The time that Scotland is thinking about is in 1418, during the Hundred Years War when France was on the brink of surrender to the English army. Scotland sent 15,000 troops to assist the French forces. They managed to tip the balance a little, but ultimately, the English army managed to defeat them. However, this managed to give the French army a little breathing room and it was the help of the Scottish that are mainly accredited for France not completely being overrun.

** Irises have the meaning "I bring a message" and daisies mean "I love you truly". Thus, to have a bouquet of these two particular flowers would mean "I bring a message that I love you truly."


End file.
